Camelot
by fanfic n00b
Summary: A moment of mistaken identity between estranged friends at a costume party. It may have lasting effects for one of them. (Expanded from a previous drabble.)


Slughorn's parties irked him. Severus suspected that Slughorn didn't really want him there, for one thing. Lily Evans had had a standing invitation to all Slug Club events since her third year, but only now, halfway into his seventh year of magical education, had Severus been invited to this august gathering of rising stars, talented prats, swots, twats, and know-it-alls.

Perhaps, after Severus' exceptional Potions performance in preparation for NEWTs, Slughorn thought it too impolitic _not_ to invite him. Unlike the quick flash of Charms or the queasy danger of Transfiguration, Potions gave Severus an outlet for thought, for calculation. But truthfully, he loved Defense best. It came easily to him, after a lifetime of domestic abuse, after scraping along as a penniless halfblood in a house full of well-off purebloods, and to his surprise, even better after he lost Lily. Lily cracked his defenses. Or _had_. And now that she loathed him, and there were no more vaguely romantic walks across the grounds (hands never quite touching), he had hardened, solidified. He'd grown taller, too. He actually fit fairly well in the costume he'd borrowed from Avery - a knight's silver mail. It was long enough, though loose around his narrow hips.

Slughorn's chamber was hot and hazy and crammed with students and teachers in fancy dress. Costumes, some homemade, some modified with clever charmwork. Idiot theme, though: Arthurian legend. There were at least seventeen Merlins, all sporting foot-long beards and spangled snoods.

Severus spotted Narcissa lounging in a velvet armchair, looking bored and beautiful. A pair of eager fifth-year Ravenclaw boys were attempting to chat her up, and she silently amused herself by pretending they did not exist. Her pale eyes flicked up for a moment and met his own. He gave her a millimeter-wide smirk, which she mirrored back at him. Such was their friendship: the nearly imperceptible smiles of the two best Occlumens in the entire school. Not that anyone else knew they were.

Behind her, Mulciber pursued a pretty, stuck-up Lady of the Lake who kept ducking behind the hangings and scrims. A couple of famous Quidditch players made a ruckus over some regional rivalry, and a bossy-looking Ministry witch scowled at them. Severus did not particularly wish to talk to anyone here. He thought about leaving, or, at minimum, slipping outside for a fag, but he seemed to be stuck at the center of a revolving knot of people, pressed limb to limb, and he could not quite escape.

And then, suddenly, there she was: Guinevere. Quite literally – wearing a faux tiara and everything. He would have scoffed at the irony if it wasn't so fucking _personal_.

She was beautiful, her long red hair braided with white ribbons, her bare shoulders exposed above a green gown of vaguely medieval proportions. And a lot of skin. Peachy, clean, heartbreaking skin. Lily. Seventeen and staggering.

Unexpectedly, she pushed her way toward him through the throng of costumed students and teachers, sliding her mask up her forehead and into her hair. She smiled at him. No, _beamed_. His insides gave a dull lurch, remembering how they used to feel around her. Part of him wanted to run for it, but she had him pinned there, with that gaze and that bright buoyant aura and the crowd, the inadvisably dense crowd - definitely a fire hazard.

She waved at him. Unnecessarily, as she was about three feet from him. He did not wave back as she closed the last few inches between them, pushing past a sweaty King Arthur in a flimsy paper crown.

And then she was right in front of him.

"Good evening, Lancelot," she sniggered.

Severus pressed his mask closer to his face, covering his mouth with his hand. God, he'd tried to hate her. He really had. It could not be done.

"I still think vicars and tarts would've been simpler," she said.

Glitter twinkled on her eyelids, flashing like sunlight on water.

"I suppose," he replied. He could not fathom why Lily was speaking to him after so long. She had not spoken to him in nearly two years, and the friendly tone in her voice made him ache.

"You'd make a lovely tart, for example," she said with a cheeky grin. "Bit of rouge. Racy lingerie."

He had no idea how to respond. Then her hands were on him, tracing along the cool silver mail. He noticed that her nailpolish was chipped. He had always loved her bizarre little imperfections, her Mugglish habits. Ironic, considering.

"You old pureblood families must have loads of this stuff lying around. Magical armor. Old shields, medieval relics," she said. "Myself, I had to transfigure my disco dress. Ooh, look at that bloke there, the knight. His charmwork's worn off completely. A case of the Emperor's new clothes. Tragic. Ha!"

She glanced up, toward him, but not directly into his eyes, and then she continued scanning the crowd for amusing sights. More Merlins. A few revisionist Morgan le Feys with low-cut gowns. The bottom half of a two-person dragon costume, abandoned by his partner - just a tail and a pair of floppy purple wings.

Then she nudged him softly in the crook of his elbow.

"Anyway Padfoot, if you see Prongs, tell him I'm looking for him, yeah? We have a bit of a wager going, and there are ten galleons riding on it," she said. "Also, don't tell him, but I've already spent the galleons on his birthday present. So it's rather important that I win. And - oh! I've just seen Moony. I think he's supposed to be Sir Gawain. Catch up later?"

Before Severus had fully registered that Lily did not know who she was addressing, that she had mistaken him for Sirius (was it the hair?), her arms were around him in a warm, sisterly hug. He could smell her, and it was just like he remembered, just exactly the same scent as Amortentia - wildflowers and books and the sweet summer grass of a particular playground. He rested his hands at the small of her back and gently pressed her closer, and felt an uncomfortable erotic thrill as she melted into him, exhaling. She intended this embrace for someone else, and he knew it.

She pulled back, smiling curiously.

"Have you got over your cold yet? You still sound odd," she said.

"I'm... fine," he said.

She bit her lip thoughtfully.

"Alright. Feel better, Lancelot," she said.

She leaned close, gave him a chaste peck on the cheek, and then disappeared into the warm crush of bodies.

He watched her go, stricken. In a room full of Guineveres, she was the only one he would swear to obey and love eternally.

Mulciber caught up with Severus and beckoned him into the corridor with a sly jerk of the head. Severus followed, closing the door on the party, and Slughorn, and Lily.

But that kiss followed him back to the dungeons, and he remembered it in dreams, long after she was gone.


End file.
